


The Falconer

by jouissant



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Declan and Gansey, before the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Falconer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



_Niall Lynch was handsome and charismatic and rich and mysterious, and one day he was dragged from his charcoal gray BMW and beaten to death with a tire iron. It was a Wednesday._

***

Ronan and Gansey were in the kitchen, Ronan rummaging through the fridge with what Gansey thought was an impressive degree of zeal. He was lighting on promising snacks and handing them back to Gansey one after the other. Already there was overflow onto the kitchen counter, but Gansey was too amused by Ronan and too staggered by the selection to tell him to stop.

The thing about Gansey was that food was generally always a distant second to the gnawing in his chest that told him _don’t ever stop looking_ , and so even back at home he’d go most of the day without eating til late at night, when he could no longer ignore the twisting of his stomach or the helium lightness of his head and limbs or the way his fine motor control objectively began to suck for things like drawing maps, making models. So he’d find himself in the glow of the night kitchen, picking idly through foil-covered casserole dishes, coq au vin or whatever, but it all tasted mostly the same cold and then the airy feeling went away and Gansey could alight planetside again, ready for action.

Gansey didn’t lack for sustenance at Monmouth, it was just that he didn’t much think about what he was putting in his mouth so long as it got the job done. At the Barns, though, food took on the kind of exotic importance that made even Gansey pause and take notice. Aurora Lynch must have been a masterful cook, though Gansey wasn’t certain he’d ever even seen her in the kitchen. 

“She must bake and stuff all the time,” Gansey said, turning a packet of pink-frosted cookies over in his hands. It was wrapped in cellophane and crinkled under his fingers. He dropped the cookies on the countertop, where they joined a pile of similarly-wrapped confections: chocolate chip blondies, a cake iced in snow-white and studded with candied flowers. Next to them sat a foil-topped pan of lasagna and bowl of what looked at first glance like apples but were a shade of reddish-purple Gansey had never seen before.

“Who?” Ronan was perusing the beverage selection now; his voice was muffled. 

“Your mom.” 

“Oh,” said Ronan, emerging with a glass bottle of milk. “I guess so.” But as he set the bottle down on the counter and turned to retrieve a brace of glasses his brow furrowed, and Gansey got the impression he too was pondering the source of all the food. But if he had been thinking about it, he didn’t elaborate, and then Declan came into the kitchen and chased all possibility of serious conversation from the room. 

“What’s up, loser,” said Ronan. “I thought you were busy with the other young Republicans on Tuesdays.” 

“Wow, you’ve got your days of the week straight,” said Declan, stepping close to sock Ronan gently on the bicep. “You’ve really whipped him into shape, Dick.” 

“Gansey,” said Gansey automatically. For some reason Declan calling him by his given name was especially unacceptable. 

“Gansey,” Declan echoed, correcting himself. He grinned at Gansey, as if he’d weighed the name, liked the feel of it in his mouth. Gansey felt his ears pink up; he turned away and busied himself wedging a square of lasagna onto his plate with a spatula. 

“Anyway, Tab’s up in Cambridge interviewing, so we called the meeting off,” Declan continued, as if Ronan had asked an honest question. 

“Tab, Jesus Christ,” Ronan muttered. He shoved the lasagna pan at his brother. “Eat some fucking lasagna. Mom made a ton.” 

“Did she? I didn’t know she cooked.” 

“Of course she does,” said Ronan with his mouth full. 

They stood around the kitchen island, Ronan eating lustily, Declan and Gansey following at a rather more sedate pace. Gansey watched Declan fork the lasagna up in neat bites. He was in shirtsleeves, rolled halfway, and the muscles of his forearm moved under his skin. Gansey could trace them down through the tendons in his hand to his fingers where they held the sterling filigreed handle of the fork. All the silverware at the Barns—and silver meant _silver_ , just the way it did at Gansey’s house— was part of the same massive matched set. Gansey sometimes wondered if Niall Lynch kept his assets hidden in the kitchen drawers. If that was true, a full twenty-five percent resided in the bank of Ronan’s room, coated with the crusty remnants of a month of afternoon snacks like this one. At least today they were staying in the kitchen.

“So,” Declan said. “What brings you all the way out here?” He cast his grey eyes up from his plate in Gansey’s direction.

“It’s not that far,” Gansey said reflexively. God, what’d he even mean by that? Stupid. But Declan just nodded, like it wasn’t, like Gansey had the right idea. 

Declan opened his mouth as if to answer. He looked, God bless him, interested. 

“Why do you care, dude?” asked Ronan before he could. 

Gansey was ostensibly over to help Ronan with his history homework; it helped that he’d guided Ronan’s hand somewhat in selecting the topic, such that they were researching both the paper and a lesser-known member of Glendower’s entourage simultaneously. Gansey got a kick out of two birds/one stone, and it wasn’t that he didn’t like helping Ronan, it was just that depending on the day and its inherent degree of _Ronan-ness_ the task tended toward thankless. 

“I don’t especially,” said Declan lightly, turning back to his lasagna.

Ronan snorted and ate a cupcake whole, wiped his hand off on his uniform trousers. “I’ve gotta piss,” he announced, checking Gansey lightly with an elbow on the way out of the room. 

They waited til they heard the slam of the downstairs bathroom door, and then Declan looked back up at Gansey again. “Sorry,” he said. Under the counter, he nudged Gansey’s shoe with the toe of his own. 

“It’s cool,” Gansey said. 

“You know how he—" 

“Yeah,” said Gansey. “I know. It’s not a big deal.” 

“You going to be here late?” Declan asked. 

“Depends,” said Gansey. “We’re working on this paper.”

Declan nodded. “Stop by later if you get bored,” he murmured. “If you want.” Gansey could’ve sworn the barest hint of a flush crept in, just around the edges of Declan's smile. 

And just like that came the smack of Ronan’s sneakers on the stone, and just like that Gansey looked up and Declan was gone, and his plate was in the sink, spotless. 

***

Gansey didn’t often get the feeling he was doing something wrong. No, in general, his life was an unceasing cascade of rightness, and had been as far back as he could remember. Even the wasps, in their way, had seemed imbued with the inevitable as they swarmed him in the woods, just as his resulting non-death had, in retrospect, been a forgone conclusion. So now, as Gansey stood at the closed door of Declan’s room, fist poised to knock, the heavy coldness settling in his guts felt completely foreign. He didn’t exactly like it. But the other thing about Gansey was this: he appreciated novelty, and if this clutching chill was anything, it was new. So he spun it into sangfroid best he could, and rapped quickly at the door before he lost his nerve. 

There was a pause, then the shuffle of approaching feet. The door opened a cautious crack, then a face appeared in the space between door and wall. Declan grinned when he saw Gansey and opened the door the rest of the way. 

“Cool,” he said. “You came.” 

Gansey rubbed at his arm. “I’m, uh, on my way out,” he said. He’d gone to the bathroom and stared hard at himself in the mirror and thought up the excuse just in case. He also had one ready should Ronan came looking; as soon as he stepped inside the room he meant to scan the place for books he could ask to borrow. Already his eyes lit on _A Separate Peace_. Gansey winced. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Well, take a load off,” Declan said. “I meant to ask you how it was going earlier. I remember things were a real train wreck for me this time last year. ” 

Gansey very much doubted that, but he’d take the gesture of camaraderie for what it was. “Things aren’t too bad,” he said. “Yet.” 

He added this last in the interest of not seeming too breezy. Declan wasn’t the sort of boy who breezed through Aglionby, though he certainly had the brains for it. Gansey got the impression that this was by his own design. Ronan told him once that Declan had proposed an entire extra term paper in English and translated a volume of poetry in Latin and ran a laboratory experiment on fruit flies in the same term he spent every weekend interviewing for some internship or other on Capitol Hill. Ronan clearly found this behavior aberrant, and Gansey hadn’t exactly bothered to argue. 

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” Declan said. “I don’t know what I’m even talking about, of course you’ll be fine.” 

“Anyway,” said Gansey.

“Yeah,” said Declan. He looked around and seemed belatedly to realize they were both standing. “Shit, here. Sit down,” he said. He cleared a space on the neatly made bed, quilt covered with neat stacks of books, somehow both cluttered and precise. Gansey appreciated the juxtaposition. 

“I was organizing some stuff,” Declan said. “That’s, uh, that’s what I do to procrastinate.” 

“I think I organize people,” said Gansey. He sat down on the bed and kicked off his topsiders, crossed his legs in front of him. 

“My brother,” said Declan. It was half a question. He sat next to Gansey on the bed. 

“Ronan is…Ronan,” said Gansey. “Well, you know.” 

“He’s your project,” Declan said. 

Gansey didn’t like the way he said it, like Ronan was some kind of golem, or worse, someone Gansey pitied. “He’s not. Look, I like him,” Gansey said. “ A lot. I want him to stay here. And he’s—he’s so smart, you know? I know he can do it all, it’s just—he doesn’t—“ He stopped. Declan was looking at him intently, and Gansey realized with a swoop of nausea how things might have sounded. 

“He dreams,” Gansey said. 

It had just popped out. It was the wrong thing. Declan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked. He leaned forward on the bed, an arm shooting out straight to take his weight. He was close, thought Gansey. The shirt he was wearing was threadbare in an expensive sort of way. It would probably be very soft. 

“Nothing,” sputtered Gansey. “Just—I feel like—like he’s got his head somewhere else half the time. Somewhere better than here.” 

Declan’s eyes closed just a beat too long for a blink. “That’s Dad,” he said after a moment. “The two of them have always been like that. Somewhere better than here.” 

Gansey had met Niall Lynch twice. The first time was in passing, early on in his association with Ronan. Niall had swept past him in the front hallway and he’d badly wanted to plaster himself against the wall. The second time, the Lynches had had a party for Niall’s birthday, a massive affair at once fancier and more relaxed than any gala event Gansey’s parents had ever hosted. The Lynch boys had each been allowed to invite a friend or two or three, and Gansey remembered being strangely flattered that Ronan had only asked him. He remembered having come upon Ronan and his father late into the night, sitting around the bonfire Niall had built. Gansey had been more than a little drunk. For a moment he’d worried Niall would notice, throw him out or yell or worse, but neither of them seemed to see them. They were deep in conversation, each seeming transfixed by the other, and as he’d watched them through the flickering blaze Gansey thought he could see a third figure standing behind them at the edge of the firelight. It was tall and darker than the night beyond it, and it laid one long-fingered hand on each of their shoulders. But then he’d moved closer and whatever it was was gone, or more likely had never been there to begin with. They’d noticed him then, and Niall had waved him over, spent the rest of the night pretending not to watch them drink beer and telling them story after story about growing up in Ireland, none of which Gansey could now remember. 

“He’d freak,” Gansey said by way of changing the subject. He didn’t want to think about that night any more. 

“Who, Ronan?” 

Gansey nodded, flapping his hand in the air between them. “About—"

“About this,” said Declan. “Right.” He sighed, scratching idly at the back of his neck. 

Gansey hadn’t meant for _this_ to happen, and he was willing to bet Declan hadn’t either. It had just…happened, the way Gansey just happened to sit next to Ronan in Latin his first day at Aglionby, just happened to snicker when he deliberately mistranslated Seneca into a fart joke. Gansey came for the irreverent slouch of Ronan’s shoulders and stayed for—well, something ineffable, probably. Something about Ronan was like a thorn—no, not like a thorn, like a burr. It stung sometimes, but really what it meant to do was hold on. 

Declan was both more and less complicated, and even less intentional. It was just that he was there, and Gansey was there, and it was impossible not to notice him, the quiet thrum of competence, the unexpected ways he and Ronan converged and split off again, tributaries of Niall Lynch. Gansey was interested in the depths of both. Plus Declan was princely in a stolid, wild-grown way, which was a shallow observation but also a true one. Gansey chased fairytales as a hobby; he certainly wasn’t immune. 

“He’d get over it,” Declan said. 

“Or he wouldn’t.” Either possibility made Gansey dyspeptic. 

“He would. He—he’d have to,” Declan said quietly. “He couldn’t hate us forever. He’s stuck with me for life, and he needs you to stay in school,” he added. It was light, clearly meant to be a joke, but it didn’t land right. It sat clumsily between them like a fledgeling for far too long to be comfortable.

Gansey sighed, feeling deflated and suddenly very tired. “I’m—I think I’m going to go,” he said. “I’m practically passing out.” 

Silence fell between them, the fractured sort of silence that seeps in after things haven’t turned out the way you’d hoped. For the first time Gansey thought how far it was out to the Barns, despite what he’d told Declan earlier. And he was tired, and his backpack was impossibly heavy; he couldn’t bear to think of how he’d have to drag himself up the rickety old stairs at Monmouth. There was a family of barn owls roosting in a corner of the first floor; Gansey hadn’t decided yet whether or not to roust them. He rather liked the company. 

“Shit,” said Declan, which was uncharacteristic enough to make Gansey’s head jerk up, disrupting his ruminations. 

“Just—" Declan said. “Just wait a sec, will you?” He grabbed Gansey loosely around the wrist.

His tongue darted out, a flash of pink, and then he was leaning forward. His mouth was rough on Gansey’s; he could’ve used some Chapstick.

_Never say that out loud,_ Gansey told himself, and opened his mouth a little wider. 

Declan kissed like he knew what he was doing but not so much so that it was off-putting. There was still a tremor to him, and it made Gansey feel a little less young. It was heartening to think still Declan had some fragment of uncertainty left, that it might match one in Gansey after all. When they pulled apart Gansey felt hot all over, and he was smiling much less repressibly than he’d meant to. 

“I just—I wanted to do that,” Declan said. He was staring down at the bed, picking at a piece of thread. “Sorry.” 

“Oh,” said Gansey. “No, uh, it’s fine.” He reached out and brushed Declan’s fingers with his own, just softly, just for a second. “I’m going to go,” he said. “I really am tired.” 

“I didn’t think you weren’t,” said Declan. 

Gansey ducked his head. He slid off of Declan’s bed and picked up his backpack. “I’ll see you,” he said, and moved to open the door. 

"Hey Gansey?" 

Gansey looked back at him. "Yeah?" 

"I'm glad Ronan's got you." 

Gansey blasted the radio as he turned the Pig for home. There were no answers now, not about Declan and not about Ronan, but he sang along in a good clear voice and his heart felt light and for tonight, chapped lips and all, he thought he could be happy enough with the questions. 

***

_On Thursday, his son Ronan found his body in the driveway._

***

Gansey knew it was bad when a cop passed him doing eighty-five on the way to the Barns. 

Thursday morning, Ronan hadn’t been in first period, and Gansey had had a feeling. He’d called Ronan at break: no answer, but if Ronan was skipping the odds were good he felt at least a little bad about it on Gansey’s account, bad enough to avoid owning up right away. It wasn’t much in the way of contrition, but it was progress. So Gansey called Declan, expecting his clipped, mellifluous voice to pick up and clarify. Ronan was sick, maybe, or Ronan was fucking around. When Declan didn’t answer, Gansey paused a moment to consider before calling Matthew, though by now he was beginning to ascertain the pattern. 

With all three Lynches unforthcoming, Gansey left the building altogether and headed in the direction of the office. Being Gansey, he was fully prepared to ask outright, but as it happened he met the Deputy Headmaster of Aglionby head on in the hallway, talking loudly on a school-issue cell phone and clearly heedless of eavesdroppers. 

“—The father. Right. We can—no, it was the middle brother who—Ronan. Exactly. We’ll do an email blast, I think, as soon as the police give a statement—“ 

Gansey turned on his heel in the middle of the sidewalk and ran for his car. 

After the cruiser sailed blithely by, Gansey pulled over and sat on the verge for a good five minutes before he could stop shaking. Then he sucked in a breath and got back on the road. The Barns was quiet when he pulled up the long gravel drive; he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but probably a little more carnage. There was an ambulance parked at the head of the driveway, two paramedics leaning up against it drinking coffee from gas-station to go cups. When they saw Gansey they stood up straight, as if they’d decided to at least give the appearance of doing something despite the fact that there was quite clearly nothing left to do. 

Besides the paramedics, the Barns currently played host to a little blue knot of Henrietta’s finest, studded here and there with the dark grey uniforms and broad hats of state troopers. Ronan hated staties, Gansey remembered. There was a guy who used to sit at the foot of a hill on the way to Ronan’s and lurk; Ronan would make Gansey slow the Pig to a crawl and give him the eyeball as they drove by. Gansey hoped to God that guy wasn’t here now. 

“Son, can I ask what you’re doing here?” said one of the cops, a skinny man with dishwater hair who looked about a year older than Gansey if he was a day. 

“I’m,” said Gansey, realizing abruptly that he had no idea what to say. Just then, though, Ronan came pelting out of the house, pursued closely by Declan. The two of them streaked out over the grass and down a hill towards one of the ubiquitous barns. Matthew and Aurora Lynch stood together in the doorway, staring off in the direction of the boys’ flight. Aurora’s hair seemed to hover around her face like a golden cloud; Matthew’s matched it, and Gansey was struck by how alike they looked in the moment, flaxen-haired and pink-cheeked and lost. 

Presently, Declan came straggling back up the hill, Ronan nowhere to be seen. When he saw Gansey he raised a limp hand in a parody of a greeting. Then he sank to the earth and stared. The police seemed to glean from Declan’s acknowledgement that Gansey had a legitimate reason to be present; at any rate, they went back to talking amongst themselves or filling out reports or planning a doughnut run or whatever the hell they were doing. Gansey went over to Declan and stood beside him. The grass was damp, though by all accounts the dew should have burned off by now. The Barns was like that sometimes, seemingly apart from things like weather. 

“Hey,” said Gansey. 

Declan looked up. His eyes were red and wet, and Gansey knew, obviously, because all it took was Ronan sprinting down through the field and some simple math. 

“My dad,” Declan said. 

“Yeah,” said Gansey. “Declan, what happened?” 

“You should—you should go find Ronan,” Declan said. “He won’t talk to me. The lawyer’s coming over in an hour. There’s a whole—“ Declan waved his hand around. “A whole thing. When someone dies. There’s a lot of—of, I guess, paperwork.” 

Looking back, Gansey thought that that was the moment Declan pulled himself together. He didn’t know if Declan anticipated what was going to happen—with their mother, with Ronan—if he knew or if he guessed. But paperwork—the boy who sat by Gansey now knew from paperwork. Already Declan was filing, signing on the dotted line. Who better to handle the bureaucracy of it. In this, Niall Lynch had chosen wisely. 

Ronan’s schedule would be a little different.

Gansey knelt on the slick grass, the knees of his chinos soaking. He had his back to the door now, to Matthew and Aurora and the gawking cops. He put his hand on Declan’s thigh, palm down. Declan was wearing a pair of worn corduroys; Gansey scratched lightly at the thin wale for want of something to do. Declan twitched, moved so that Gansey’s hand fell away. He looked up apologetically, and Gansey hated himself a little for making Declan say no. 

“Go find Ronan,” Declan said again. 

“Declan—" 

“Please,” said Declan. “Do me a favor, Gansey, okay?” 

“Sure,” said Gansey, his eyes stinging. “Of course.” He got up and walked down the field to where Ronan lay curled in the lee of the biggest of the barns, and after awhile the two of them came inside. By then the ambulance was gone. Lights, no sirens, and Gansey didn’t follow. He’d got Ronan to sit up, and nothing else mattered now.

***

_On Sunday, Ronan stole his deceased father’s car._

***

“RONAN, YOU CANNOT TAKE THE BEEMER!”

Ronan wasn’t listening. He and Gansey were standing at the far end of the driveway. Ronan clutched a set of car keys, and Gansey once again felt like he was doing something wrong. 

Behind them, Declan had come pounding out of the house. The whole morning so far had taken on a fragmented, apocalyptic quality; it reminded Gansey of some eighties movie he couldn’t put his finger on. That movie had had guns, though, and for all their sakes Gansey was glad there were no guns here now. 

Ronan, however, seemed bound and determined to weaponize however possible. 

“FUCK OFF,” Ronan called back to Declan in a singsong. 

“He’s going to kill you,” Gansey muttered. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Declan start for the BMW. It sat before them like a great shark, oblivious to the mess it was making. Beside the car the gravel had been newly tilled by someone or other; that was because it had been covered in blood. 

“I’m already dead,” Ronan said. He grinned at Gansey like a skull. 

“Guys?” Matthew peered out at them from the doorway. 

“STAY IN THE HOUSE,” said Declan and Ronan in near-perfect unison. It would have been amusing if their parents hadn’t been dead and unconscious, respectively. 

“I’m serious,” said Gansey under his breath. 

“I’m serious, Ronan,” Declan said, skating up beside them. “Give me the keys.” 

Gansey made a face at Ronan. _See?_ he mouthed. Ronan rolled his eyes, and Gansey looked despairingly between him and his brother. 

Ronan continued to ignore Declan. He went over to the car and put his hands out, like it was something that needed taming. He pressed a button on the key fob and the car beeped; Gansey half expected an explosion. Tick tick boom, though maybe that had already happened. 

“You can’t take that,” Declan said, trying to edge between Ronan and the car door. “It’s—we can’t take anything, that’s what it says. We have to be out of here by noon and we can’t take anything, and that means the fucking car.” 

“I don’t care what it says,” said Ronan. “It’s bullshit.” 

“It’s what he wanted—" 

“Fuck what he wanted,” Ronan said. “It’s fucking stupid. Look at you, you’re so happy he put you in charge—"

“Jesus, Ronan,” said Gansey, mostly because of the face Declan was making. “He’s not happy.” 

“He is,” Ronan said. “He _is_. You don’t know, Gansey, you weren’t _here_ —" 

Declan stepped closer. “Ronan,” he said warningly. 

“—It’s like he’s been _waiting_ for this. Well, congratulations, Dad’s gone and everything’s yours and you get to control us forever. Just what you’ve always wanted. Now get out of my way.” 

Gansey wasn’t completely certain what happened next, only that Declan put his hand out and took hold of Ronan’s arm and Ronan wrenched his arm away in a violent and balletic arc, brought it up and back again, and Declan doubled over with his hands pressed to his face. Ronan shoved past and into the driver’s seat of the BMW, shoving the key in the ignition and revving the engine in a clear warning. Declan was still leaning heavily against the car, red seeping between his fingers, and Gansey had the sudden realization that Ronan was going to throw the car into reverse and that he might not actually care where Declan was when he did it. 

Gansey leapt forward and grabbed at Declan, wrenched him back from the car with enough force that both of them lost their footing and tumbled to the driveway. Declan landed on top of Gansey and they lay in a dazed pile for the space of a breath. Something wet and hot dripped onto Gansey’s neck. He flinched, and the motion seemed to startle Declan awake. He scrambled off of Gansey and sprawled on the grass. In the background Gansey was dimly aware of Matthew calling out again, of the growl of the BMW’s engine and the cloud of yellowish dust that hung along the driveway in Ronan’s wake. 

Gansey sat up. His head felt heavy, and he prodded the back of his skull carefully for signs of damage. 

“Are you okay?” Declan asked him. Gansey thought that was rich, since Declan was the one bleeding. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Are you?” 

“He was going to give me the car for my birthday,” Declan said by way of a response. “He—he told me, before he left last.” 

“Declan—" 

“Ronan can have it. I get it. It’s fine.” 

Nothing is fine, Gansey wanted to say. He didn’t. He just nodded and held out a hand and helped Declan up. 

“We’ve got to go,” Declan said. “It’s eleven forty-five.” 

They piled into the Pig, Gansey and Declan and Matthew in the back, staring sheep-eyed out the window at the Barns as if he expected the place to self-destruct. Halfway back to Henrietta he laid his head on the window and fell asleep, and from the way Declan kept looking Gansey knew he was thinking of Aurora. 

“He’s okay,” Gansey said. “Just sleeping.” 

Aurora was not just sleeping. She was in a hospital in D.C., until the doctors could figure out what exactly she was doing instead. 

“I—I’m not sure he gets it,” said Declan, nodding at Matthew. “You know? He’s just so—he’s so good. Like Mom was. It’s like he never quite got that there are people in the world that do things like this.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Gansey quietly. He kept his eyes on the road, but in his peripheral vision he saw Declan rubbing at his eyes. He’d been up most of the night with the lawyer. Gansey had taken Ronan to bed and let him drink himself unconscious, then stayed up most of the night watching to make sure he was still breathing. He’d heard Declan come up the stairs some time in the early morning, thought hard about knocking on his door again but ultimately decided against it. 

“Can you drop us at school?” 

“Sure,” said Gansey. He sighed. “Look, about Ronan—“ 

“He’ll be at your place,” said Declan. “Won’t he?” 

“Probably,” said Gansey. 

“Do you—is there space for him there?” 

“Of course,” said Gansey. He was suddenly acutely aware he was signing up for something. He was fine with it. 

“Cool. Just until he settles down a little.” 

Gansey couldn’t imagine an Aglionby dorm holding Ronan, now or ever. It remained to be seen whether a tumbledown warehouse could.

The school was quiet of a Sunday, and there was nobody to be seen as Gansey pulled the Pig around behind the junior dorms. Matthew was still drowsing in the back, and Gansey supposed in a minute he’d have to help Declan wake him up, coax his soft body into consciousness and then go and drag Ronan back from the brink again. Now, though, he turned the engine off and set his hands down in his lap and took a deep breath. He thought that when he was alone he might cry. He hadn’t yet; the idea had seemed self-indulgent. He didn’t know if Declan had either. 

“Well,” said Declan. “I guess we should go. I’ve got to meet the dean to get our room keys.” 

“Are you—“ Gansey let himself trail off. He’d thought to say something like _are you sure you’ll be okay_ , but now the words sound trite and stupid. 

“I’ll be fine,” said Declan, like he knew Gansey’s thoughts. He smiled tightly at Gansey, and Gansey realized he had no doubt Declan would be. It was only that fine might have a cost, but he didn’t doubt Declan knew that too. 

“Yeah,” said Gansey. “Okay.” He undid his seatbelt and made to get out of the car; he meant to crawl into the back and shake Matthew. Declan reached out then, and put his hand on Gansey’s knee as if to still him, the way Gansey had on the grass that day at the Barns. His lips were still chapped; there was a flake of blood in the middle of the lower. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Declan said. His thumb rubbed little circles against the nap of Gansey’s jeans, and Gansey thought of asking what he was talking about, of saying that he wasn’t going anywhere, but he thought of Ronan and knew in his bones it wasn’t true. He nodded. 

“Take care of him,” said Declan, and Gansey said, “I will.”


End file.
